Ollie. Asexual/Panromantic/Genderqueer. They/Them/Their or Xe/Xem/Xyr. Writer, crafter, baseball fan, TTRPG enthusiast. Whatever you actually followed me for, I should probably apologize. Unless you followed me because of one of my fanfics, in which case I should DEFINITELY apologize.
patience my brother (and patience my friend): a TMA fanfic
[Prologue] [1] || Also on AO3 and my personal website
Chapter 2: Blood and Stars
“You’ll never be able to have a proper reception with the house in this state. It’s a disgrace. I can’t see how you can bear to have people over.”
“I generally don’t.” Susan spoke more than half mechanically. The flat had never felt smaller, or colder. She’d expected it to feel empty, but honestly, this was worse.
“Nonsense,” Mabel Sims snapped, shutting the cupboard with unnecessary force. “You had company when I arrived.”
“Antony and Gillian aren’t company, Mother. They’re our dearest friends. You know them.”
Mabel sniffed hard. “This is a time for family.”
“They are family.”
“They are not, although I don’t expect the likes of you to understand that.” Mabel cast a cold eye over Susan before returning to her initial bout of criticism. “Honestly, this place is in a dreadful state. Show me your cleaning routine.”
Susan bit back a sigh. “We don’t have a routine. We clean up messes when we make them, we tidy up when we have the time, but we don’t expect to be able to keep the place up to showroom standards at all times.”
“You should have plenty of time to clean. What do you do all day?”
“I work, Mother.”
“Really, Susan, I thought you had given that nonsense up. You have a child. You shouldn’t still be playacting at having a job. How can you possibly fulfill your duties as a wife and mother if you’re spending all your time outside the home?”
This is the 1990s, not the 1890s, Susan retorted, but only in the privacy of her own mind. She got it. She did. Mabel was grieving and hurting and…okay, she’d never particularly liked Susan to begin with, but in this instance she was just defaulting to what she knew to make herself feel better. And yelling at the old bat would just cause problems she was not prepared to deal with. Paul maybe wouldn’t have minded her actually throwing his mother out on her ear for daring to speak to her like this—it was why she hadn’t been invited to visit since her husband’s death—but there was a good chance it wouldn’t work and she wasn’t prepared to call any of her colleagues to help her enforce it.
But damn it, she was grieving too.
Mabel kept going, yanking another cabinet open and then slamming it shut as she spoke. “A clean house is a Godly house, and a dutiful wife is a blessing to her husband.”
“Mother, please,” Susan began, feeling the edges of her self control beginning to fray.
A tiny sound from behind her drew her attention, and she turned to see two little figures standing in the doorway, slightly rumpled and far too downcast for their age. Jon was dragging his teddy bear by one leg, Melanie had a stranglehold on her rag doll, and they were clutching one another’s free hands like they were the only thing keeping the other from falling off the face of the planet.
Jon looked up at her with huge green eyes—Paul’s eyes—full of sorrow and bewilderment and pain. “Daddy come home soon?” he asked.
Susan glanced at the kitchen clock, but before she could even get her mouth open, Mabel turned around with a face like she was sucking on a lemon. “He won’t be home at all,” she said, her voice far too harsh to be used on a child. “He is dead.”
The teddy bear fell from Jon’s suddenly nerveless fingers, and Melanie’s eyes widened and flooded with tears. Susan gasped and started towards them. “Oh, no, sweethearts—” she began, hoping to head off the meltdown before it happened.
The door opened before she could get another word out, and Jon and Melanie both moved before she could register it, flying across the living room to launch themselves at the figure in the door and latch on hard as Melanie burst into tears.
“Here, hold on, let me in the door,” Antony said, trying to laugh as he did so. Jon’s only response was to wrap himself more tightly around Antony’s leg; Melanie, from the look of her hands, was not only bunching up his trousers but digging her tiny nails into the flesh underneath.
Susan whirled around and glared at Mabel. “Mother!”
“You won’t make things better by pretending,” Mabel snapped back. “If he keeps expecting a dead man to come in the door—”
“Tell you what,” Antony said in the voice Susan knew he used on recalcitrant witnesses to avoid his superior browbeating them. “Why don’t I take my new shoes here for a walk back across the way and get dinner started while you two ladies pack a bag for you and Jon? We’ve got that beef that needs eating up, and I think there’s the possibility of a strawberry bombe for dessert.”
Even the mention of their favorite dessert didn’t make either of the children loosen their grips on Antony’s legs. Mabel narrowed her eyes at Antony. “And what, exactly, do Susan and Jonathan need a bag packed for?”
Antony removed his hat and ducked his head respectfully towards Mabel. His tone stayed mild and his accent as crisp and clear as possible. “Well, ma’am, I know Paul’s brother and sisters are coming in soon, and this place isn’t really big enough for everyone, is it? My wife and I live right across the way, so we thought we would clear up that space before the rest of your family arrives and give you room to get things the way you want them.”
His winning smile, his guileless blue eyes, and above all his well cut suit charmed, or at least mollified, Mabel. She sniffed once more, then turned back to her cleaning. “Be sure she makes the appointment with the priest tomorrow.”
“You have my word that I will make sure Susan does everything exactly the way Paul would have wanted,” Antony said solemnly. He bowed to Mabel, dropped Susan a swift wink, and turned around, making big, exaggerated steps that normally made Jon and Melanie giggle until they couldn’t breathe.
They didn’t even really seem to react.
“God help me, Gil, I’m going to strangle her,” Susan muttered as they hustled towards the bedroom.
“That’s why we’re getting you out of here, Sue,” Gillian muttered back. “Come on.”
“What are we packing for, anyway?”
“Er, at least a week. Might as well bring your funeral clothes as well, if George and Mary and Martha are really going to be staying here.” At Susan’s confused look, Gillian shook her head and gave her a gentle, sad smile. “Jon needs Melanie. And you need us. And Mabel Sims needs a tranquilizer dart directly to her arse, but since I think those are a bit harder to come by in London we’ll have to go with ‘space’, so you and Jon are staying with us at least until the funeral. Or until she leaves.” She opened the closet and hauled out Paul’s Army duffel bag, then opened it on the bed. “Best to take everything you don’t want her to throw out or appropriate.”
Susan held it together—barely—until she and Gillian had packed the duffel, thrown a quilt over it to keep Mabel from pitching a fit, put together a bag of Jon’s things, done a dance of brittle politeness in getting past her, and crossed the road to where Antony and Gillian were still living. The second she stepped through the door, Gillian lifted the bag off her shoulder and pushed her unceremoniously onto the couch. “Sit. I’ll go put things up…kids! Mummy’s here!”
There was a sudden thunder of footsteps, and Susan only just had time to brace herself before Melanie and Jon launched themselves into her. She scooped them into her arms and kissed the tops of their heads, murmuring soothingly. “It’s all right, loves. It’s going to be all right. Mama’s here. Mummy’s here. Daddy’s here.”
Melanie looked suspiciously towards the door, eyes narrowed. “Dat Fucking Woman?”
A clatter and a crash came from the kitchen, and then Antony appeared in the doorway, tie and jacket off and sleeves of his dress shirt pushed up to his elbows. “I did not just hear that.”
“Papa say,” Jon said defensively. Tears brimmed up in his eyes as he said it, and he scrubbed at them roughly with his arm.
Susan looked up at Antony. Despite everything, she found herself fighting the urge to laugh. “What is it they say? Children listen, and often repeat word for word exactly what you wish they hadn’t heard?”
“Something like that. Dinner’s almost ready.” Antony crossed the living room and threw the deadbolt on the door, then slid the chain into place. “There. See? Grandmother can’t get in now.”
Melanie hmmphed and nestled into the crook of Susan’s arm. Jon did the same on her other side, rubbing his cheek absently with his free hand. Susan sighed heavily and tipped her head back against the couch. “Thank you. For the space and the…barrier.”
Antony smiled kindly down at her and brushed her hair back from her face, then leaned over Melanie to kiss her forehead quickly. “As for the barrier, that’s what we’re here for. As for the space…it’s not like we’re giving up on the Plan just because we’re down one rat, Nicodemus.”
“Christ, I’m so tired I can’t even think about it,” Susan confessed.
“It’s been less than a day, Sue,” Antony said gently. “And you’ve had to deal with your mother-in-law. We’re giving you space to think, too.” He straightened. “I’m going to go finish up the stew. What are you drinking tonight? Pulling out the champagne we were saving for Monday seems a bit much, but there’s beer and probably whiskey.”
Susan opened her mouth, looked down at the tiny dark heads, closed it, and sighed. She didn’t normally drink, but…“The hell with it. I’ll take the whiskey.”
She ate because she had to, not because she thought Jon or Melanie wouldn’t if she didn’t but because they were watching her closely and she could not, would not add to their worries, little as they were. It was objectively good food, but she just…didn’t want to eat. She wanted to drink whiskey all night, but that wouldn’t be good on an empty stomach and wasn’t an indulgence she could risk allowing herself anyway, so she made herself eat. She gave Jon and Melanie their bath and read them their bedtime story—unsurprisingly, it was Paddiwack and Cosy for the two hundred and ninth time—then tucked them into Melanie’s brand new “big girl bed” with a kiss. She didn’t even bother putting them head to foot; she hadn’t even made it as far as the light before Melanie had cuddled herself around Jon, while he clutched the back of her nightgown like a lifeline. Their lashes fluttering shut over their cheeks was the last thing she saw before she hit the switch.
Antony, now wearing knockabout clothes, and Gillian were waiting with three tumblers of whiskey when she came out and collapsed next to them. “Tell me this gets easier,” she muttered, reaching for one.
“I don’t know, Susan,” Antony said quietly. “I’ve never lost a spouse before.”
“Well, now we all have,” Gillian said dryly, raising her glass in a mock salute. “At least you don’t have to do this alone.”
“I would not have made it through the last twenty-four hours without you two.” Susan took a swallow of the whiskey and coughed at the burn. “Especially when, as our daughter said, That Fucking Woman showed up this morning.”
“I still cannot believe she said that,” Antony muttered. “I’m just glad she didn’t say it in front of Mabel. We’d be having a double funeral.”
“Triple. You honestly think Jon wouldn’t have said something too?” Susan rubbed her forehead. “Christ. There are so damn many hoops to jump through, and now I have the added joy of having to race Mabel to them.”
“You’d think a reasonable mother would go with what her son would have wanted.” Gillian scowled. “Of course, that assumes the woman who made the appointment to have her grandson baptized without actually consulting his parents could be defined as reasonable.”
“She doesn’t care what he actually would have wanted. It’s all about her,” Susan said, fighting to keep her voice from rising and waking the children. “She wants a full church funeral. She wants him buried in the ‘family plot’ in Bournemouth—they don’t even have a ‘family plot’, it’s just where his father is buried. She wants me wearing all black and not venturing out of the house for a year—”
“Three months. And I don’t think that starts until after the funeral.” Antony hesitated, then asked, “Did, uh—did Paul ever tell her about Lucy?”
“I’m not sure,” Susan admitted. Involuntarily, her free hand went to her stomach, even though she knew there was nothing to feel. “I know he didn’t want her to know until we absolutely had to tell her because he didn’t want her coming up and trying to take over—”
“Gee, I can’t imagine why he would think she might do something like that,” Gillian muttered, glaring in the direction of the door.
“—and, well, he didn’t want her doing too much math, I don’t think,” Susan completed. “She thinks I’m a godless heathen as it is. Last thing she needs to know is about the arrangement.”
“You talk like that’s a formal thing and not just ‘we’re always in one another’s pockets right now so this might as well happen.’” Antony shook his head. “Anyway. We do have a family plot, so she can kiss our collective arse. We’ll reach out to the funeral director tomorrow to start getting that in motion, hopefully before Mabel calls the priest.”
“I’m not sure if they’ll be open on a Sunday, but we can try.”
Gillian groaned. “Christ, tomorrow’s Sunday. You know she’ll talk to the priest as soon as the service ends.”
Susan frowned. “She can do what she likes with the church, even if we don’t attend, but legally there’s nothing she can do about the funeral itself, or the disposition of his body. That was the whole reason behind any of us getting married, wasn’t it? So that nobody else could decide what happened to us after we died?”
“I think it was also for tax purposes.” Gillian took another swig of her whiskey. “The two inevitabilities.”
“And also so we didn’t have to pick out a microwave,” Antony quipped, then grew serious. “Is the office open Monday?”
“Should be. Old Dry as Dust doesn’t like letting the opportunity for billable hours to slip past,” Susan muttered. “I’ll be there with the milk delivery.”
“Whoa, hold up.” Gillian set her glass down with a sharp thump. “You’re going back to work already? Are you saying the son of a bitch you work for won’t let you have two weeks bereavement leave or—”
“No, it’s not work related, I won’t be going back for a couple of weeks at least,” Susan assured her, giving her a quick kiss on the temple. “But our wills are on file with them. I registered his death this morning, just before Mabel turned up, so as soon as I have the death certificate in hand we can apply for probate. And I know that sounds ghoulish, but—”
“No, you’re right. The longer you wait, the more likely it is Paul’s mother tries to do something sneaky and underhanded,” Gillian said with a sigh. “God. I hate that we can’t even grieve him properly because we have to spend all our time trying to stay one step ahead of his mother.”
“You don’t have to—”
“The fuck we don’t. Just because your name is the one on the marriage certificate doesn’t mean we didn’t love him, too. Or you.”
Susan sighed. “I know. I just don’t want to put you two in her crosshairs.”
Antony shrugged. “Better me than either of you. I’m a white man, she’s less likely to treat me like garbage.”
“I really hate that you’re not wrong about that.”
“Paul did, too, which is why he did his level best to cut her out of his life.” Antony glanced down the hall. “He didn’t want Jon or Melanie exposed to that. It’s ironic that the only person in the family who was more their father’s child than their mother’s is the only one that lives close enough to have to deal with her.”
Susan swallowed the sudden lump in her throat. “Lived, past tense.” She paused, then added, “And his sister’s in Paris, which isn’t that far, all things considered.”
“Seven hours to the three it took her to get to us,” Gillian reminded her. “Where are the others? One’s in Potsdam and the other…”
“Kilmarnock, I think. I forget what her husband does. They were the ones that were too busy to come to Edward’s funeral.” Susan snorted. “I’ll honestly be shocked if they actually turn up for Paul’s.”
Antony hummed. “Well, he was the baby.”
The three of them sat in silence for several minutes, listening to the rattling of the pipes and the soft, sighing snores coming over the baby monitor. Susan finally broke it quietly. “He was so close. So close. Just two more weeks and…it wasn’t even anything impressive. Just a stupid accident.”
“On the other hand,” Antony pointed out, “at least he wasn’t deployed. Imagine if he’d been gone on a mission or whatever and we’d all been looking forward to this being the last Christmas we had to spend apart.”
“I…honestly can’t decide if that would be worse,” Susan confessed. “I’m just thankful we didn’t have to see it.”
Gillian dropped her head to Susan’s shoulder. “At least it was quick. He got a better death than your mum did, or my parents. And, hey, at least we’ve done that part before.”
“True. And we’re not going to school on top of it.” Susan sighed and snuggled deeper into the couch. “I’m so glad you’re both here with me.”
“Where else would we be?” Antony leaned his head against Susan’s. “Face it. You’re stuck with us for life.”
Susan smiled, for the first time in what felt like ages. “You know, I think I can be okay with that.”
Jumping from child care to private security really messes with you. I keep saying "oopsie daisy" and encouraging drunk folks to "go home, drink some water and take a nap, and let's try again in 24 hours, okay?" Best part by far is that it's working. Guy went like he was going to fight me the other day and his buddy said "you leave the nice lady alone"
[ID: Comment by @emilyshka “INCREDIBLE, good for you. I went from being a nanny to bartending and accidentally put a whole bachelorette party in time-out. 100% recommend it was great.”]
My team members used to ask me all the time how I kept my patience when they came up to me and asked the same stupid questions over and over and over again. My response was always "I used to work with preschoolers, and the only difference between them and you is that preschoolers are portable."
patience my brother (and patience my friend): a TMA fanfic
[Prologue] || Also on AO3 and my personal website
Chapter 01: Training Wings
“Objection! Your Honor!”
It took every ounce of willpower Antony possessed not to groan and smash his face against the table in front of him. At best, that would earn him a reprimand from Barrister Edmund Hightower; at worst, it would earn him a censure. Neither of which would get him out of here any faster.
He sneaked a glance at the clock on the wall. The short hand was on the wrong side of the five for how close the long hand was to the seven, and still there was no ending in sight. Damn it all, he knew Hightower and the judge both wanted to get this over with today rather than have to come back on Monday, but up against this pettifogging, pompous, litigious moron, it would be more cost effective by far not to eat into the weekend. Their hourly rates didn’t change after normal working hours, but surely they could finish it faster on Monday morning when they were all fresh. There ought to be a law…
“Overruled.” In the judge’s defense, he sounded at least as bored and impatient as Antony felt. “Continue, Barrister.”
Antony tried not to visibly bounce his leg as he willed his superior to get to the point already. Barrister Hightower, however, hurried for no man nor beast, and continued gently, slowly leading the witness on an amble down Primrose Lane, taking time to stop and smell every flower on the path. Christ Almighty, Antony loathed this on a good day, but today of all days, he had next to no time for it.
Why hadn’t he listened to Gillian? Yes, she’d been quite hormonal at the time, what with the illness and the high blood pressure and the small matter of her creating an entire human inside her body, which was a marvel and a miracle Antony couldn’t even begin to comprehend, but she’d also been absolutely correct: a man who would put a case with a five hundred pound payout above a family member going into actual surgery was not a man with the best interests of his subordinates at heart. He ought to have put in his notice, found another practice, and left this one in the dust at least six months ago. Or, truthfully, gone into self-employment like most other barristers did. By rights, he shouldn’t even have had to work this week, but no, he wasn’t needed, he could delegate perfectly well to his aunts and just go up for the actual burial on Saturday. He might have got more of a response if he’d told Hightower how the old man had died, it being a highly publicized incident and all, but knowing Hightower he’d have dismissed it as a mere attempt to capitalize on a tragedy to obtain some personal time.
“Your witness, sir,” Hightower said at last, bowing stiffly to the opposing counsel, who eagerly bounced to his feet, prepared to cross. Antony bit back a sigh and glanced at the clock.
“Impatient, Barrister?” Hightower whispered in his ear.
“I have an appointment…Barrister,” Antony muttered back. And I’m already going to be cutting it fine.
The jury foreman beckoned to the bailiff, then leaned over and whispered in his ear. The bailiff nodded, then turned to the judge. “Your Honor, the jury requests a recess due to the late hour.”
The judge frowned and glanced at the clock. Antony mentally crossed his fingers. “Mrs. Caldwell, I had hoped to finish your testimony today…”
“I don’t mind waiting, sir,” Mrs Caldwell said timidly.
“Objection, Your Honor,” protested the opposing counsel, rising to his feet. “To require my client to wait a whole weekend in order to get answers—”
Antony shot to his own feet before Hightower could, secure in the knowledge that this part was technically his role. In his clipped, careful RP accent, he interjected, “Your Honor, it would be more prejudicial to the case to force the jury to make a decision based on information they obtained so late in the evening after a very long day. For both sides, and for Mrs Caldwell’s sake, we move to recess for the weekend.”
The judge stared at Antony. His gaze dropped briefly to his tie, then back to his face before nodding and reaching for the gavel. “Motion sustained. This court is adjourned until eight o’clock Monday morning.” He banged the gavel twice.
“All rise!” the bailiff bellowed.
There was a general rustling as the court rose, and the judge left the chambers; the jury filed out next, and the defendant was led away, leaving only the barristers. Hightower gave Antony a disappointed look, but said only, “See you on Monday. Sharp, mind.”
“Of course, Barrister,” Antony said crisply.
Hightower nodded and left; the opposing counsel swept out after him, leaving Antony to gather the last of his papers along with the opposing second. The other man, whose name totally escaped Antony, met his eyes and nodded at his neck with a wry grin. “Old school tie, eh?”
“Always know your audience.” Antony grinned back as he shoved the papers haphazardly into his briefcase. “I reckoned he’d be more likely to listen to a fellow Etonite if it came down to it.”
“Of fucking course you went to Eton,” the other barrister mumbled, then cleared his throat. “Sorry, that was—”
Antony snorted and let a little of the West Riding back into his voice. “I’ve for sure heard worse, mate. Have a good weekend.”
“You, too.” The other barrister grinned. “Got a hot date, have you?”
Antony, who was halfway out the door, turned around and hopped backwards a few steps as he called back, “It’s my kids’ first birthday.”
It was a cold and rainy day; people shuffled along the sidewalks under black umbrellas or covering their heads with newspapers. Antony had forgotten his umbrella in his hurry that morning to get to the bakery and confirm their order before he had to be in court, and he wasn’t particularly keen on sheltering himself under That Bloody Woman wittering on about Hillsborough or whatever else she’d decided was more important, so he turned up the collar of his coat and hurried down the steps, careful not to slip. Last thing he wanted was to fall and break his neck, today of all days.
A battered estate wagon in a riot of colors that they affectionately called the Harlequin pulled up alongside the steps as he reached the bottom, and the window rolled down. “Get in, mate, it’s pissing out there.”
“Ta.” Antony yanked the passenger side door open and threw himself into the seat, tugging his tie off as he did so. “What are you doing here?”
“Picking your ungrateful arse up.” Paul smiled to take the sting out of his words and waited for Antony to wrestle the belt into submission before pulling away from the curb. “Just got done myself, so I thought I’d swing out this way and make sure you weren’t still here. Buses are going to be hell today.”
“Any particular reason?”
“It’s Friday and it’s raining.”
“Fair point.” Antony rubbed at his face. “Suppose I should be grateful. At least I don’t have to run around in full kit jumping out of perfectly good airplanes in this weather.”
Paul snorted. “Take a tip from someone who’s spoken to his fair share of gearheads. The phrase ‘perfectly good airplane’ is an oxymoron."
They fell silent for a few minutes as Paul navigated the hellish tangle that was London traffic in preparation for a weekend. Once they were past Trafalgar Square, Paul asked, “So what time is the service tomorrow?”
“You don’t have to come if you don’t want to,” Antony said, even though he wasn’t looking forward to facing the weekend alone.
“I’m aware. That wasn’t the question I asked, though.” Paul glanced at him briefly before returning his gaze to the road. “Even setting aside the Plan, you and Gil were there for me at Dad’s funeral, and that involved dealing with Mother. Obviously Sue and I are coming. So again, what time is the service, and are we keeping the kids out or taking them?”
“Auntie Liz will never forgive me if we deprive her of baby time during the funeral, even if they are cutting teeth. Viewing is at eleven, service at noon.”
“Bets on which one’s comes in first?”
Antony couldn’t help but laugh. “I don’t know why you still bother trying to get me to do that. You know the only thing to actually bet on is who gets to the phone first.”
They passed Downing Street, and out of habit both of them stabbed their middle fingers in the general direction of Number Ten. Antony flopped back against the seat. “If she’s there tomorrow, please stop me from beating her to death with a decorative urn.”
“No promises,” Paul said solemnly. “But I will swear blind that her head just did that all on its own. Doubt it’s likely, though. She visited that kid, she’s done her duty. By the way, remind me, I’ve got a copy of that card for you and Gillian each to keep in your wallets.” He slammed his hand down on the horn and spat a blistering string of invective towards the driver who had just cut him off.
“Good. We’re clearly going to need it.” Antony reached for the Jesus strap.
They made it to St Pancras with just enough time to get their tickets before their train pulled out of the station, and two hours later they stepped out onto the platform in Sheffield. Antony had assumed they would need to catch a cab, but a gruff voice called his name and he turned in surprise to see his grandfather rising from his seat and folding up a newspaper.
“Gramps, didn’t expect to see you here.” Antony gave the old man a tight hug.
“Where else would I be?” Arnie King, the prototype of a Yorkshire miner and still spry despite closing in on a hundred, hugged him back so hard he felt his spine rearrange itself, then turned to give the same embrace to Paul. “Good to see you, too, ye tall bastard.”
“Good to see you, too, Gramps.” Paul, who may not have been as strong or wiry as Arnie but at least could hold his own against him better than a junior barrister, hugged him back. “The girls and the kids get up safe and sound?”
“Aye, they’re all twitterin’ about the place and getting things just so. Hope you weren’t trying to teach them to walk this weekend, I don’t think either one’s feet have touched the ground since they got to the house,” Arnie grumbled as he steered them towards where he had, presumably, parked his truck. “Something to focus on, at least. Why are you dressed up in your funeral best already, boy?”
Antony felt the blush starting up his cheeks as he mumbled, “This is my work suit, Gramps. Gillian brought my suit for the funeral up with her.”
“You’ve got finer feathers than this? Job must be paying well.”
“It was a Christmas present, Gramps.”
Behind his grandfather’s back, Paul patted Antony’s shoulder sympathetically.
The house was a riot of sound, most of it the chattering of women—or, as Antony’s da had uncharitably called it when he’d had a few, the clucking of hens. He’d been the youngest of seven and the only boy, and since only two of his sisters had married—one of them four times to date—and both of them only had daughters, he’d grown up surrounded by women, which was probably why he’d scrimped and saved and put his only son’s name down for Eton as soon as he worked out how to. It wasn’t just to get him out of Sheffield and away from the mines and the steel mills, it was to ensure he was surrounded by more men than women. (In Antony’s private opinion, all it had really accomplished that he couldn’t have done on his own was to keep him from realizing he was bisexual and not gay until he got to Cambridge, but that was neither here nor there.) There was a slightly wobbly record playing on the Victrola, being accompanied by four different voices singing with more spirit than tune from various parts of the house, and Antony’s aunt May was cutting a rug in the middle of the living room with her “friend” Nell.
Antony turned to Paul. “Did we accidentally walk into a World War II Army reunion?”
“No, there’s not enough beer for it to be the Army.” Paul looked around distractedly. “Where are the kids? Or their mothers?”
“Kiss me goodnight, Sergeant Major…” Antony’s aunt Rose came sashaying through the door from the kitchen, singing as she did so and exaggeratedly bumping her hips from side to side, much to the delight of the two tiny tots perched on either one. They clutched at her shirt, giggling in that way babies had that made Antony understand why J. M. Barrie had said the first faeries were created when a baby’s laugh broke into a thousand pieces, as she gyrated towards her oldest sister.
Antony raised an eyebrow. “Found ‘em.”
“Girls! Look who’s here!” May had finally caught sight of Paul and Antony as they tried to edge into the house proper.
“Sergeant Major, be a mother to meeeeee…” Rose casually sashayed back out of the living room. It was incredibly obvious she wasn’t giving up the babes until she was damn well ready to, and maybe not even then.
The rest of Antony’s aunts came out to fuss over him; he bore up with as much grace and good humor as he could, and was extremely thankful that Paul was there to absorb some of it. They were finally released with orders to “go and change into something you won’t be upset about getting icing on” and managed to escape to a guest bedroom. Thankfully, Gillian had, in addition to Antony’s best suit, brought some more comfortable clothes. While part of him would have liked to take a bit more time to hide out, he heard his aunts—and his grandfather, for that matter—singing “There’ll Always Be an England” and knew they didn’t have more time.
He led Paul the back way down the hall and into the kitchen, where, unsurprisingly, they found Susan and Gillian sliding a cake out of the oven, two brown bottles on the counter next to them. Gillian glanced up as they came in, took a look at Antony’s face, and handed him one of the bottles. “Here. You look like you need this.”
“Love you, too, sweetheart,” Antony groused, but he accepted the bottle and did in fact neck half of it in one go. “Christ. I’m sorry I dragged you lot up here for this.”
“You didn’t drag us anywhere, dear, we came voluntarily.” Susan handed Paul her bottle and went to the fridge for two more. “Where did Rose get to with the twins?”
“Has anyone said anything about you calling them that?”
“Are you kidding? Rose has been calling them Nan and Bert all afternoon.” In response to the look Antony gave her, Gillian clarified, “The Bobbsey Twins. American book series that used to be decently popular. I always thought they were dreadfully soppy.”
Paul slung an arm around Antony’s shoulders and squeezed him in a quick hug. “I already told you we were never not going to come for your dad’s funeral, so I know that’s not the ‘this’ you think you dragged us up here for.”
Antony sighed. “No, but great jumping grasshoppers, I know none of you expected us to be celebrating their first birthday up here, with…all of this.”
There was a crackle and a scratch, and then loud applause came from the living room, followed by rhythmic drumming. Susan glanced towards it, then turned back to Antony and shook her head. “What, exactly, would we be doing if we were back in London? Gillian and I would have spent all afternoon prepping on our own and been annoyed that you two were late, and it’s not like we have that many friends in the area who would have come over.”
“I just…feel like this isn’t about the twins.”
“It is. Or at least it is as much as first birthdays usually are.” Gillian took a sip of her own beer. “Face it, these sorts of celebrations aren’t really about the babies, they’re too little to remember it anyway. It’s more a celebration of ‘hey, you managed to keep these fragile little beings alive for a whole year, good job.’ And your grandfather isn’t getting any younger, you know. This might be his only chance to see them on their birthday. The reason we’re up here might be horrible and I feel awful for you—and them—but this part? This is fine.” She glanced towards the living room and added, “Besides, if we were at home we’d be singing nursery songs or trying to wrestle the radio into submission rather than listening to Vera Lynn and the Corries.”
“This is a Corries album?” Antony tilted his head and identified the particular drawl. “Must be a new one.”
“There’s a song about the general election on the B side,” Susan said. She crossed over to the door and stuck her head through. “Oi! Are we ready for cake?”
“Roger! Get the high chairs!” Jean ordered in the sharp voice she hadn’t lost since her time in the WRAC, and from the loud click, Roger—whom Antony still wasn’t sure he should call his uncle, since he was both husband number four and only about twelve years older than he was because his aunt Peg had a taste for younger men—had saluted out of habit.
“Right,” Paul announced as he strode for the living room and stepped in. “Give ‘em here, Auntie Rose, I’ve been on maneuvers for two days and I need my baby fix.”
"Papa, Papa!” Two excited voices cheered in unison.
Antony followed his best friend, feeling a smile cross his face, and entered the living room in time to see Paul scoop the babies into his arms and sweep them over his head with one hand each, much to their mutual delight. He came over to rescue one—didn’t particularly matter which one—and help settle them in the high chairs before their mothers came in and had simultaneous heart attacks.
As he stepped back, he found himself glancing at the newest framed photograph on the wall—the one of his father, grinning like a fool, with a baby under each arm like a rugby ball caught in the act of spinning them around like a helicopter until, as Antony recalled, both had been so overstimulated they threw up. His smile turned a bit melancholy, but he took a deep breath. At least the old man had had one Christmas to enjoy being a grandfather.
“Right!” Liz produced a pair of gold party hats and plunked them down on the infants’ heads. “Where’s that cake?”
“I’m not setting this on fire,” Susan warned from the doorway.
“Don’t be ridiculous. Not at this age. They’re as like to try and eat it as blow it out.” May shooed the rest of her sisters back from the circle and lifted the needle clear of the Victrola. “Go on, then.”
“Here, give me the big plate.” Nell reached over and liberated the majority of the cake from Susan, leaving her to hold two plates with a single slice each on them as Gillian followed her with the rest of the plates and forks.
Susan crossed towards the high chairs and began to sing. “Happy birthday to you…”
All the rest of the family joined in. Antony slung one arm around Gillian and the other around Paul as they sang, watching the two little faces light up as their mama set cake in front of them. Surprisingly, neither one touched it…yet.
“Happy birthday, Jonathan and Melanie…happy birthday to you!”
“And many more…” Edmund, Aunt Dolly’s husband, sang out in a baritone that was surprisingly strong for his age.
May dropped the needle back onto the record, allowing the Corries to introduce their next song before the lilting guitar began playing, and Nell began serving out the cake. Antony accepted a slice from Nell only to see Liz, standing behind her, covering her mouth with one hand as she stared over his shoulder.
“What?” he asked.
“Look at the twins,” Liz managed from behind her hand.
Dreading the mess he was about to see, Antony turned around—and blinked. He could have sworn he hadn’t looked away for more than a second, but both slices of cake were gone. Jonathan was carefully sucking the last of the icing off of his fingers, while Melanie had her plate in both hands and was enthusiastically licking it clean. There wasn’t a crumb to be seen anywhere around either.
“Well, they made short work of that,” Liz said, and now it was clear she was trying to hold back her laughter.
“Did you like that?” Antony asked.
Jonathan dimpled up at him and raised his hands. “Dada,” he said with a winning grin.
Melanie banged her plate against the tray and stretched her hands out, too. “Dada!” she cried, then slapped the plate with an open palm and held out her hands again. Jonathan repeated the gesture.
This was probably a bad idea, but, hell, birthdays only came around once a year, right? Antony turned to the woman who would have been his aunt if the government weren’t such backwards cowards. “Auntie Nell, would you mind cutting another couple of slices for the birthday babes?”
“You’re changing their diapers tonight,” Gillian warned him.
“I’ll change them tomorrow, too.” Antony looked down at the children again, something inside him softening. It would be worth whatever mess was coming to keep them smiling like that. Life would slap them down hard soon enough, but for now, there was still time for them to be innocent and carefree yet. Let them eat cake.
Each Sunday, post six sentences from a writing project — published, submitted, in progress, for your cat — whatever.
“Oi! Are we ready for cake?”
“Roger! Get the high chairs!” Jean ordered in the sharp voice she hadn’t lost since her time in the WRAC, and from the loud click, Roger—whom Antony still wasn’t sure he should call his uncle, since he was both husband number four and only about twelve years older than he was because his aunt Peg had a taste for younger men—had saluted out of habit.
“Right,” Paul announced as he strode for the living room and stepped in. “Give ‘em here, Auntie Rose, I’ve been on maneuvers for two days and I need my baby fix.”
"Papa, Papa!” Two excited voices cheered in unison.
So of course we all know Tumblr does that thing where it shows you blogs you might like either because you interact with a lot of reblogs from them or because you post about a lot of the same things or whatever, right? Well, I was scrolling down my dash today and I saw this:
Which confused me, because I have none of those tags blacklisted or filtered. I have filtered for a particular author I strongly dislike, a blog I find unethical, and a fanfiction trope I don't care for, and I couldn't think which of those MBA might be posting about.
So I looked at the post.
And I saw this.
ARE. YOU. KIDDING. ME.
You're recommending me a blog - a blog I am actually interested in (and now following), by the way - and you're claiming tags are filtered...and it's because it's about fish going from female to male.
Fuck you, Tumblr. Stop deplatforming and banning trans women. Stop marking their posts as mature with no recourse. Stop filtering tags I didn't ask you to filter that DON'T EVEN HAVE ANYTHING TO DO SPECIFICALLY WITH THE THING YOU SUDDENLY OBJECT TO.
Also while we're on the topic of anglo language imperialism. It's extremely fucked up that
1) a lot of job opportunities with upward mobility in non-Anglo countries require a mandatory level of English proficiency
2) demonstrating this proficiency is usually done through internationally certified english assessment tests, which are offered by institutions from anglo countries, and which you usually have to pay hundreds of dollars to take
3) the results for the vast majority of these tests are only valid for two years, after which you have to pay to take them again
Which means that anglos have created an extremely lucrative industry built entirely on coercing millions of people all over the world into a lifelong cycle of paying millions of dollars to people in the US and England for a chance to prove that they still know how to speak their language with a sufficient level of proficiency to be able to keep their jobs.
✨ Please reblog the polls to make them reach out to as many people as possible, but KEEP IT SPOILER-FREE to make people listen to the music with an open mind 💖
✨ Artists and titles will be revealed with the full song after the poll's conclusion, check the original post for an update!
⚠️➡️ Yes, spoilers includes posting the lyrics. Please don't spoil. There are other ways to have fun with the post if you reblog it, maybe be sneaky/witty about it with obscure references. Have fun while following the rules! 😄💖 Fandom blogs/communities are welcome to reblog, but please keep that as far as it goes with spoilers!
I think a lot of writers might benefit from giving themselves permission to get weird with format.
Use second person, drop classic rising action and climax format, write backwards, just sit in a moment, tell all you want and refuse to show, make an entire book that’s just one run on sentence, reject tropes, use all tropes, cliche yourself to death, produce something that’s completely gibberish. Break all the rules of marketability. Become ungovernable.
It’s the middle of the night and I should be sleeping but listen. Listen. Just get weird with it. Open your soul up a little bit. Like actually don’t worry about it being palatable. I’m serious. Get weirder. Get weirder right now. I’m demanding that you get weirder right now. It’s not your responsibility to make your reader feel good. It’s your job to make art, goddamnit. Make art. Make weird art. Open up your third eye and eat an entire cheesecake.
I used to be obsessed with writing The Perfect Novel. I followed every rule, every convention, every step. I worried over word choices and deleted and rewrote sentences until they were perfect.
And then I made a throwaway joke about a character in a story (who was a writer) and a book she had written.
And then NaNo was coming and I didn't have a plot in mind.
And then that line jumped out at me.
And I said I couldn't do that, because it wouldn't work.
And then I decided to try it anyway.
And that is how I ended up writing roughly 30,000 words of a book titled The Questions of My Life, which was about the 2000 US Presidential election (and would have eventually also covered 9/11 if I had continued it) from the perspective of a fourteen-year-old boy in the form of his diary written entirely in haiku.
Genuinely. Get weird with it. Write something nobody in their right mind would ever want to read. It's fun, it's cathartic, it's free, and it primes your brain to realize that you're Allowed To Write That Thing You Want, Actually, because a universe that would allow something like that to exist isn't going to protest whatever else you came up with.
AO3 should have an Annotation Mode where you can click to view all of the author's commentary and thoughts about certain parts of the work. A little comment that says "I spent five hours researching vintage radio mechanics for this and didn't even end up using it" or "this is an ancient Hebrew literary technique!" would make my day
janainaart
andulkaphoto
tangentwithtanner
snowghoul
titsay
